End of Innocence
by girlwithoutfear
Summary: Sequel to "Accidental Hero". Picks up right after Matt Murdock comes home from the hospital after the accident that blinded him. How will he adapt to the changes in his life, and when will he realize that he is anything but a "normal" blind person?
1. Chapter 1

End of Innocence

* * *

Matthew Michael Murdock was blinded in an accident when he pushed an old man out of the way of a speeding truck in Hell's Kitchen, New York.

He eventually becomes the costumed vigilante, Daredevil, after his boxer father is killed by the mob for not throwing a fight.

Picks up at the end of "Accidental Hero". A fifteen year old Matt Murdock comes home to a world that can never be the same for him. How will he adjust to his new life?

* * *

Chapter 1

"It's good to be home, Dad."

My voice bounces around the room, which feels quite a bit smaller than the last time I saw it. Yeah. _Saw it._ Past tense.

"I'm gonna put your things away, Matty. I'll be right back."

Just how far could you go in here, Dad? No place that I can't hear you, that's for sure. Won't be any secrets in here now.

It's a nice day, and Dad's in the back opening the windows to let the spring air in. Not that it's gonna make this dump smell much better. The fire escape outside the bedroom opens onto an alley where there's always some wino taking a piss or the rats scrambling to get scraps before the pigeons do. A classy neighborhood, this ain't. I can also smell the laundry hung out to dry on the lines between the buildings and hear it flapping gently in the breeze. All sorts of things that I can't identify off the top of my head. This is going to take a lot of getting used to, sorting all the input so it makes sense.

Well, a long journey begins with the first step, they say, and with that in mind, I begin to rediscover the place we call home. First things first, bathroom. I feel awkward using my cane in here. Should know my way around since I don't remember living anywhere else. I'll just take it with me in there, and then leave it in the bedroom. Reach out—there's the coffee table. So far so good. The bathroom is to the right, the door in the middle. Wait, that's the wrong door. I'm too far to the right; this is the door to Dad's room.

"You okay in there, son?"

"Yeah, I'm just gonna go to the bathroom." Damn. I backtrack out of Dad's room into the living room. The bathroom door is maybe a foot away. I trail my hand along the bathroom wall, and run smack into the sink. Ow. I thought it would be farther away from the door than that. The toilet is directly across on the opposite wall, so all I have to do is turn around. I lean my cane against the sink and misjudge when I turn around and bang my shins. Crap! I didn't realize how really small this room is.

I take a whiz, then hit the flush handle without even thinking. It hits me that I've done that enough in here to be able to find it automatically. Wonder how long it'll be before everything is routine enough again that I won't be fumbling around?

I remember that we were out of soap on the sink just before I had the accident. There doesn't seem to be any here now, either. Usually we keep a spare bar under the sink. I start feeling around in the cabinet. Spare roll of toilet paper. Can of something, probably Comet. Yeah, I smell it. Here we go—a little square wrapped in paper. I unwrap it and feel for the wastebasket with my foot. Bang! Turned it over.

"Everything okay, Matty?" Jeez, is he going to ask me that every two minutes?

"Just kicked the trash can in here, no worries." I bend over and search the floor to see what I've spilled. Nothing that I can tell. Must have been empty. I drop the wrapper in and wash my hands. Should have checked for a towel first, because I can't find one hanging up by the sink. Usually there's one by the tub. Thud! "Shit!" I kick that cast iron bathtub really hard and pitch forward into the tub. I catch myself with my hands on the back wall, just as I hear Dad coming up behind me.

"Lemme help you here." He grabs me around the waist and pulls me upright. I spin around to face him.

"Leave me alone!" I scream in his face. "Don't treat me like I'm helpless! I'm not HELPLESS—just cut it out, okay?" I stomp past him, arms flailing. I find the wall outside the door and then the door to my room. I slam it shut behind me. Two steps—no, three—and I fall onto my bed, tossing aside my dark glasses. They clatter onto the floor. Smooth move, Matt. Now you'll probably step on the damn things. Fuck.

He's outside the door. I hear him breathing—he might even be crying. I don't feel like inviting him in. I bury my head under a pillow to try to shut it out.

"Matty, I didn't mean—aw shit, son."

* * *

Since I didn't check what time it was when we got home, I don't have any idea how long I've been holed up in here. I might have fallen asleep for a little bit; it's damn hard sometimes to tell the difference between whether I'm daydreaming or really asleep since the scenery never changes now. I check my watch. Not even noon yet. I better try to find my shades before I forget about them. Okay, now, how hard did I sling those things? I don't remember hitting the wall with them, and it's a good thing I threw them away from the window, or they could be down in the alley.

I ease off the bed onto my knees and start the search. I get lucky and find them on the second pass, checking to make sure I didn't knock one of the lenses out. That would sure as hell look goofy. Nope, still there. Probably scratched the shit out of them, like that really matters anyway. I put them back on, just because I have a feeling that we might have company of some sort today, and I'd rather not have people staring at me to see what my eyes look like now.

The phone's ringing, and I hear Dad's heavy steps on the wood floor. Eavesdropping is going to be my main source of information now, I guess. He's talking to someone about me. I get a little closer to the door, but I don't open it. It's a woman; she's got a shrill nasal voice and talks really loud. Something about coming over here tomorrow.

"Yes, Mrs. Foster--" Dad tries to get a word in edgewise, unsuccessfully. "Yes, ma'am. Matt's fifteen, almost sixteen." I hear him huff, and her still babbling. "That's right—he goes to Brandeis. He's an honor student there—or was." Geez, Dad, thanks. Now you think since I'm blind, I'm an idiot. Great.

"Tomorrow? How about in the morning around ten? Okay, good. We're on the fourth floor, apartment 4B. We'll be looking for you then. Bye." He drops the receiver with more force than he needs to, so I gather that he's not thrilled about meeting this Mrs. Foster. There's a knock on the door; Dad shuffles over to answer it.

"Hello, Jack." It's Aunt Grace from down the hall. "I thought you fellows might like some chicken salad sandwiches. After I gave you the plate of cookies, I scolded myself for not thinking about making something more nutritious for you for lunch."

"Come on in, Grace! That's mighty sweet of you. I was just thinking about what I was going to fix us for lunch. I need to go get some groceries. Please, have a seat."

"Oh, no, I need to get back so I can watch my stories. Don't worry about bringing the plate back. I'll come get it later. Hope you boys like sweet pickles. I put a little in the chicken salad. No onion, though, 'cause it gives me heartburn. Bye, now!" The front door shuts, and I jump back onto my bed, like I haven't been listening, because I hear Dad's footsteps coming to my door.

"Matty?" He says through the door, then knocks hesitantly. "Aunt Grace brought us some lunch. Come on out and eat. Please?"

"Go away. I'm not hungry." That's it, Matt. Teach him a lesson. Be a little prick. You're entitled. I throw a pillow at the door and it connects with a satisfying thunk. So there!

My door bursts open with the force only an angry boxer would have. "Look here, buddy boy, that kind of stuff isn't going to cut it, and you know it!" I almost think I can see him looming over me like a dark cloud, fists clenched in rage.

I start yelling. "That's just it, Dad, I can't 'look here' or anywhere else. Or hasn't that sunk in yet? I'm seriously screwed here. Go ahead, slap me upside the head. I'll never see it coming." I stop. I can't believe I just said that to _my_ father, Battlin' Jack Murdock. He could take my head off my shoulders if he wanted to. But that's not the reaction I get.

Instead, he stops like I've hit _him_. The air rushes out of his lungs in a huge whoosh. He turns away and walks back into the kitchen. "When you do get hungry, there's sandwiches out here from Grace."

I follow him into the kitchen. The chicken salad smells great. She's made it like that—with sweet pickles, no onions—as long as I can remember. She knows it's one of my favorite things she fixes. That's why I smiled to myself when I heard her say that to my dad, like she was telling us something new. Maybe she's getting old and forgetful. I bite my lip before I apologize.

"Dad? I'm sorry that I went off on you like that just now."

He stops what he's doing in the kitchen. I imagine that he's got both hands on the counter, leaning over on them, head down, from the way he sounds when he answers. "I know you're angry, son. I would be too if that happened to me. It's just that—that I don't want you to get hurt any more than you already are. It killed me to see you in that hospital bed, all bandaged and bruised up." His voice comes from a different angle now, so I guess he's straightened up, facing me. "I couldn't protect you. You have every right to be pissed off at me."

"What?" I'm incredulous. "You weren't even there! I'm not mad at _you_, Dad. I'm mad at how the universe decided to crap on me when I didn't do anything to deserve it. _That's_ what I'm pissed off about. Certainly isn't your fault what happened." I trail the edge of the table around to where he's standing. "Come here, Dad." I hold out my arms. "We need a good manly hug. Right now. Give it to me."

He grabs me by the shoulders, then swoops me up in a bear hug befitting an old boxer. "You're right, Matty. I—we needed that."

"Okay, Dad, you can put me down now!" My feet are dangling. He drops me and ruffles my hair. Why do fathers always do that to their sons? We both laugh. I don't think we've hugged like that since I was a little kid.

"Want some milk, or water?" Dad's puttering around in the fridge now. Probably not much in there.

"Water's fine, I don't need any ice, either." He draws a couple of glasses from the tap, and sets them on the table. I take my seat next to the wall.

"Glass is at two o'clock, son. I'll get us some plates for the sandwiches. We don't have any chips, sorry. I've got to go to the store."

"That's okay, I'm not real hungry."

He sets my plate in front of me, and taps my hand. "Here, take this paper towel. You want one or two sandwiches? She brought us four, so there's plenty."

"Let me start with one, then I'll take another if I'm not full." The sandwich drops onto my plate, and I gather it up for a big bite. "Umm. Yum. Aunt Grace hasn't lost her touch on the chicken salad, that's for sure." She might not be a blood relative, but she's sure been good to us, and everybody else in the building, all these years. Many a day I've come home from school to a plate of hot cookies. Not many latchkey kids can say that. I chew thoughtfully, then realize Dad's not eating. "You okay, Dad? Who was that on the phone?"

"Aw, it was some woman from the Lighthouse calling to make an appointment to come here tomorrow for an interview. She was flapping her gums about all this stuff—like checking out what our home looks like, and what kind of living arrangements we have, and how much did you already help around the house, stuff like that. I dunno, she just makes me nervous. I know we don't have much. I'm going to have to tidy the place up a little better, and get some groceries in here before she comes, or she'll think I'm not doing right by you, Matt. I'm doing the best that I can, son. You know that, don't you?"

I hear the despair in his voice.

"Of course I do, Dad. Don't get upset about her. I'm sure she's seen a lot worse." I reach over and touch his arm. "We're gonna be fine. Don't worry. Now, eat some of this food. It's so much better than what I've had for the past week or so in the hospital." I push my plate toward him a little. "In fact, I think I'll have seconds."

"You're right," he says around a mouthful, "she still makes great chicken salad."

We finish eating and stack the dishes. Dad tells me he's going out for a while to pick up some food for the week. "Anything in particular you want, Matty? We need cereal and milk, probably some bread—I'll check—and sandwich meat and some cheese. Got a craving for anything?"

"Not really. But where'd you put those cookies Aunt Grace brought? I'd go for a couple of those."

* * *

Dad's been gone only a couple of minutes when I decide that I just can't sit around here. The slight draft coming in through my bedroom window tempts me to go out and sit on the fire escape. During the summertime, that's the only place to catch a breeze, and I know that perch like the back of my hand.

I trail the edge of the window and leap out onto the balcony of the escape. It creaks under my weight, swaying ever so slightly, making me a little queasy. I clutch at the brick wall to steady myself for a moment, then put my back to the wall and ease out to the railing. Good, that wasn't so hard. I sit on the floor and swing my legs out over the ledge, straddling one of the railing supports. I've been doing this ever since I can remember.

There never was much of a view out here, not that it matters now. Just the back wall of the building across the alley, pretty much a mirror image of the one we live in, grimy red brick and dirt-streaked windows. The real view is from the roof, where I used to sit at night and watch the lights of the city twinkle on at sunset, and where Dad has an old punching bag hung up under the water tank. When I get a little more used to things, I'm sure I'll spend a lot of time up there pondering the mysteries of the universe. Or at least, trying to figure out what I'm going to do with my life now. So much for being a brain surgeon.

I open my watch and check the time. Almost three, time for the neighborhood to come alive with the sound of kids coming home from school. For a moment, I consider going back inside so I won't have to worry about dealing with some of the smartasses who always made fun of me before, picking on me for being a bookworm, taunting me because I seldom take any chances and won't defend myself in a fight. Nah, I'll just stay out here. What are they gonna do? Call me names like dorkface and dweeb and daredevil? They already do that. They think they're being ironic. I think they're just morons.

Right on cue, I hear the giggles of the little girls as they come out to jump rope, and the boys shoving and slapping each other on their way to the afternoon stickball game in the alley. Moms hang out the windows and yell at them to come in and change out of their good school clothes before they start playing, followed by groans of resignation from the kids. Typical spring day, one I've seen many times from right here. Now it's up to me to fill in the blanks about what's going on around me. Time to use my imagination more.

Across the way, I hear footsteps on the fire escape, several sets bouncing hurriedly down to the next level. Suddenly, the clanking stops. I picture several guys running into each other when the first one stops, just like in the cartoons, which makes me grin. That doesn't last long, because they are talking about me, probably pointing at me.

"Whoa! Look over there. When did Murdock come home?" It's Jason, who's a grade below me in school.

"Should we go talk to him?" That would be Sean, Jason's little brother. He's always sort of looked up to me. I'm not sure why.

"I dunno. Man, that's gotta suck, bein' blind and everything." Trent. He's in some of my classes at Brandeis. We used to study together sometimes. Wonder how that will work out now.

They have no idea I can hear them. I keep sitting and swinging my feet, pretending I don't know they're over there, waiting to see if they'll make the first move or not. I don't have to wait long.

"Yo! Murdock!"

to be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

End of Innocence

Chapter 2

"Jason? What's up?" I wave in his direction and try to be as nonchalant as possible.

"Not much, dude. Hey, can we come up?" Get ready for the questions, Matt. You know they're coming.

"Sure. Who's 'we'? Is Sean with you?" Of course, I know he is, and Trent, too.

"He's always hanging around with me and Trent, you know that! Never can shake this little runt," Jason calls across the alley. Since Jason and Sean live in the same building with Trent, and Trent and I wait for the bus together, we have hung around together. Their descent to the ground level continues, evidenced by the resumed rattle of the fire escape.

"Hey!" Sean's higher ten-year-old voice chimes in. "Nothin' new there, either, Matt. He's still picking on me. When did you get home?" Trent still hasn't spoken up. This bothers me.

"They let me out this morning. Really glad to get away from that hospital, man. Home never looked so good. Uh—you know what I mean." I grin nervously. The fire ladder creaks to the ground, and I can make out three people climbing down it. "Trent, you out there,too? Come on up, guys." I could ask them to come up through the building, but since Dad's coming back soon, I don't want to explain to him about having a bunch of rowdy kids in the apartment. Better out here.

Finally, Trent speaks up. "Yeah, I'm here, Matt. How ya doin'?" They drag up something to stand on and catch hold of the ladder on my side, pulling themselves up on the fire escape below me. I wait until they get to my landing before I answer. My words would have been lost in their clomping up the stairs.

"I'm okay, I guess, considering I got hit by a truck last week. You miss me at school, Trent? Whose homework did you have to copy from while I was gone?" Try to keep it light, Matt. From the sound of their breathing, they aren't just winded from the climb, they're fidgety, too.

Trent laughs nervously. "Nobody's. Had to do that biology assignment all by myself. You owe me, Murdock. You're cutting up the next frog." He kicks at the metal railing. I motion to him to sit next to me on the platform, and he swings his feet over the side. He hesitates, and adds, "Damn, are you ever going to get to come back to school?"

It's a valid question. "Probably not this year. I've got a whole bunch of stuff I gotta learn before I can go back. I've got all summer to learn braille and get used to getting around by myself again. You know, get ready to take it up in the fall." Now that I've voiced it, I'm not entirely sold that I can pull it off. A short silence follows.

"So, is it all black and stuff?" Sean's curiosity gets the best of him, and he's less inhibited than Jason and Trent. He'd practically been holding his breath since he got up here, so I was waiting for him to get on with his usual twenty questions. Might as well get used to answering this.

Before I can reply, Jason reprimands him sharply. "Sean! Shit, man!"

I hold up a hand for him to stop. "It's okay, J. He didn't mean anything. Well, yeah—sort of real dark, but not what I expected. Sometimes, it's like there's shades of something there, like it's moving around. But it's not really just pitch black. I dunno. Hard to explain." And it really is.

"No light or nothin'? And it's never gonna get better? You're always gonna be blind? That must suck. How'd you find your way out here?" Rapid-fire Sean. He's a very honest kid. Says exactly what's on his mind. If only everyone did. I turn around to face him and smile up at him where he's standing behind Trent.

"Nope, no light at all." I wave my hand in front of my face. "Yeah, this is it for me. Blind as a bat. Blinder, probably, because bats have that radar thing." I smile a little more at that thought. How cool would it be to have that radar thing? "You know, the fire escape is still in the same place it was last week, so it was easy to find." Not exactly, but a good enough answer for now. I try to focus where I think Jason is standing. "Hey, Jason, how'd you guys do with the baseball team tournament? Or is that next week? Talk to me, man, or I don't know if you're there or not." Got to work at this conversational thing. Otherwise it'll always be awkward.

"Uh—we made it to the semifinals. But coach says I should make the team next year as a freshman. I suppose that's good news." I figured he would. Kid was always killer at stickball. When he got into middle school, he turned into quite the baseball player.

"That's awesome! Congratulations!" He'd been so excited about that tournament. "You're gonna have to coach me on the finer points of the game so I can enjoy it more when I listen to it on the radio. I know the basics and all, but not a lot of the strategy. Same with football, since Dad never let me play. Not that it'll matter a lot, now. Suppose I can still debate, whether I can see or not." That was _my_ team sport in school. Real hazardous. Might get a papercut from the notes. I look away, toward the ground, then I nudge Trent.

"Say, did Ryan get his shop project finished? He was trying to convince Mr. Bates that he was building his mom a spice cabinet, but he told me it was really for him to put his porn stash in so he could lock it in his closet. It's a wonder he doesn't cut a damn finger off, he's such a klutz." We both chortle about that one, since Ryan has been bragging about his porn collection all year, although nobody else has every had the privilege of actually seeing said porn. We've all doubted that he even has any.

"Shit, no. That asshole probably'll do good to even get it done before school's out. He's so full of it. I'd love to take his so-called stash and stick it where the sun don't shine, you know?"

"Ryan's got porn?" Poor Sean. He's so gullible sometimes.

"Nah, I doubt it seriously. Don't go blabbin' to Mom about this, Sean. She'd tell Ryan's mom, and then Ryan would think he had a real reason to be messin' with us on the way to school. Freakin' bully." Jason has been on the receiving end of the wrath of Ryan just like I have.

"Maybe I can get someone to sneak me a 'Playboy' in braille," I tease. "After all, we only want it for the fiction, right?"

Trent socks me on the shoulder. "How can you joke about this, Matt?" He gets up to leave. I stand up beside him and stretch.

"No point in crying about it, is there? Won't change a damn thing. Ease up—okay?" I reach out to find his shoulder. "Listen, you guys. Please don't think you can't joke with me about this. I want you to. Nothing is different here, except that I can't see shit, and you might have to fill me in on some details. Oh—and none of that 'look out!' stuff unless you tell me what the hell it is I'm supposed to be avoiding. Got it?"

I have the feeling they are nodding, so I add, "And quit nodding your heads! I can't hear your brains rattle, numbnuts!"

"That does it, Murdock—your ass is mine!" Trent gives me a good-natured slap on the head, and I surprise him by anticipating it and returning the favor. He stops dead still.

"How'd you do that?"

"I have no idea." I'm as shocked as he is.

* * *

"Matt! What are you doing out there, boy?" Uh, oh. Dad's back, leaning out the bedroom window. "Did you boys drag him out there? What were you thinking?"

"N-no, Mr. Murdock. We saw Matt sittin' out here when we came home from school, and w-we just wanted to say hi, that's all." Jason has always been a little afraid of my dad. I guess he comes across as really mean because he sounds pretty gruff most of the time. "D-don't be mad at us, please?"

"Give 'em a break, Dad. I came out here by myself. I'm perfectly capable." I try to smooth things over, because the last thing I want is to lose the few friends I have around here. "Besides, I invited them up." I can hear them easing closer to the stairs to make their getaway.

"You've got no business gettin' out here on the fire escape by yourself, Matt. Why, you could trip and fall off the edge—or something."

"Daaaaad! Geez!" I moan. "I've been coming out here since I was little. I know how far it is to the end, and besides, what do you think they put rails on here for, anyway?"

"You can quit givin' me that chin music, young man! Get your butt back in here. You boys can come back another time. Matt and me got some business to take care of. So, beat it!"

"Sorry, guys. Guess I'll talk to you later." I know better than to argue right now, and Jason, Sean, and Trent are beating feet down the ladder. I climb back in my window, and Dad grabs me a little too hard by the arm and gives me a shake. "Listen here, Matty, you can't just go messin' around out there like you used to. It's not safe."

"Okay, Dad. Didn't mean to scare you." I know he's right, up to a point. I have to be more careful, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna be a hothouse flower. Gonna have to prove to him that I can take care of myself when he's not around.

The phone's ringing again. "We'll talk about this in a minute," Dad says, and answers the phone. "H'lo? Yeah—hi Dave! Sure, we got home just fine. Tomorrow? As long as it's in the afternoon, because that Mrs. Foster is coming in the morning. Do you know her? Yeah, she strikes me as being an old battleax. Here, let me let you talk to Matt." He says to me, "It's Dave Bryant—he wants to talk to you."

"Hey, Dave! Sure, tomorrow afternoon's fine. We live on the fourth floor, 4B. Yeah, by then I'll be more than ready to hit the ground running, more or less. Okay—see ya. Bye." I hang the phone up, hoping Dad has cooled off by now. He's in the kitchen, putting away the groceries. Time to try a little diversionary tactic.

"Whatcha get at the store? Anything exciting?"

"If you call milk, bread, bananas, and ground meat exciting, I guess so. Thought I'd make some hamburger patties tonight. Okay with you?"

"Oh yeah. Do we have mustard?" I'm sure we do, but anything to keep him from remembering to chew me out about going outside.

"Lemme see." He opens the fridge, and rattles a few bottles in the door. "Yep, gotcha covered, sport."

He bought some other stuff, too, but I can't identify what's in the packages he's putting in the cupboard. I'm guessing some kind of cereal, maybe a bag of noodles or chips. I really hope he got some Cheetos, the puffy kind. I'll check it out later. Meanwhile, I help myself to a glass of milk and sit down at the kitchen table with another of Aunt Grace's cookies.

He heads back into the living room and flips on some afternoon talk show, settling into his raggedy old recliner and kicking back with a beer. He probably won't go to the gym tonight since it's my first night back. We have to get a new routine going. It's really important for him to keep his training up right now because he's been off his schedule since my accident. Dad may not be a big name fighter, but he's been doing pretty well on the circuit lately, and he could still be a contender if all goes well. He works hard at it, and I'm proud to say I'm Battlin' Jack Murdock's son.

* * *

"Here, Matty. Give me a hand with these burgers." I get up from my spot on the sofa and join him at the counter. "The meat's already in the bowl with the salt and pepper. Mix it up for me and make the patties while I slice this onion." He taps the bowl on the counter, and I ease past him to the sink to wash my hands.

"How many do you want me to make?" This has been a routine meal for us for years. I dry my hands on a towel and go to squishing the greasy meat between my fingers and forming patties bigger than my palms.

"That should probably make four. Here's a plate to put them on." It clatters loudly when he sets it next to the bowl. I transfer the hamburgers to the plate, my eyes watering from the onions that Dad's slicing next to me. I quickly wash the meat off my hands so I can take off my glasses and wipe the tears away. At least it doesn't make any difference about seeing what I'm doing. But damn, that's a strong onion.

Dad's not a great cook, but he can fix a mean burger. I hear the sizzle of the meat as he drops them in the skillet, and I get the mustard and mayo out of the fridge, setting them on the table. I take the mixing bowl to the sink, squirt some soap in it and hunt for the dish sponge, waiting for the water to get hot in the sink while Dad flips the burgers. I don't really like the smell of this dish soap. Guess I never really noticed it before. I wipe the inside of the bowl, feeling around the edges to make sure I didn't miss anything. Satisfied that I haven't, I rinse it and set it in the dish drainer just as I hear Dad scoop the burgers out onto the plates.

"Want me to fix your burger for you, son?" He sets the plates on the table, along with some utensils.

"I think I can handle it. Pass me a knife, would ya?" I dig some mayo out of the jar and attempt to slap it on the piece of bread in my hand. "Ewww—could you hand me a paper towel, Dad? I just sort of mayo'd my wrist a little." I laugh about it. "Gotta work on this aim thing." He brushes the paper towel against my outstretched hand, and I wipe off the mess. "Good thing the mustard is in a squeeze bottle!" I make a spiral motion above the other piece of bread, and assume I hit the mark because I don't feel anything cold on my hand as the mustard sputters out. Next the burger, top it with a thin slice of that potent onion, and a piece of American cheese that Dad just unwrapped and handed me. Slap it all together and—we chow down with gusto, me chasing it with a coke, and Dad with another beer. He doesn't always keep sodas in the house, so I'm thinking he's trying to make nice with me. I'll go along with that. "Good stuff, Dad."

"Wipe your mouth, Matty," he teases.

Once we get through with supper, I offer to wash the rest of the dishes so Dad can watch the news. "You can check them after I'm done, make sure I didn't miss a spot, okay?" I grin in his direction.

"Sounds like a deal to me!" He sounds tired. I'll be surprised if he makes it through the news without falling asleep. It's his usual MO.

I start to add more hot water to the soapy water, then decide that it'd be better to start fresh. The water gurgles down the drain as I finish clearing the table and stack the dishes to the side. As I pick up the cutting board, I feel a shift in the weight; it's the knife Dad used to cut the onion. I gasp—it's sliding off the board and I know better than to try to stop it, so I jump straight back to keep it from hitting me in the foot. It clatters to the floor.

Dad reacts immediately. "What was that? Oh, crap, Matt!" He races in to grab the knife off the floor before I start searching for it. "You okay? I should have washed and put that away when I got done with it. I'm so sorry. Damn."

"No harm. I'll just have to remember what we use while we're cooking, that's all. Here, let me set it where I can find it to wash it last." I reach out, but he won't give it to me.

"Nuh uh. You might cut yourself. No way I'm going to have that social worker lady come over here tomorrow and you all cut up because I screwed up. I'll do it. In fact, just let me wash the dishes. You could hurt yourself."

"On what? You've got the sharp knife, and we didn't use any glasses. Two plates, a couple of butter knives, the skillet. I can swing that. Don't try to shelter me, Dad. I've gotta do this." I turn on the tap and adjust the temperature of the water, squirt some more soap in and fish around for the sponge.

He relents. "Okay, okay. Sorry that I keep getting protective, son. It's just a father thing. Someday you'll know what I'm talking about." He sets the knife way back in the corner. "Don't worry about drying and putting the dishes up. I'll do it later." He stops at the fridge and grabs another beer, pops the top and heads back to his chair. He groans just a little when he sits back. I doubt he even realized he did it.


	3. Chapter 3

End of Innocence

Chapter 3

True to form, Dad's fallen asleep in his recliner after supper. Normally, I'd be at the kitchen table or in my room doing my homework, but obviously, there's none of that for now. The news is on, but I'm not really interested in it until I hear my name. Crap, I forgot about that little ambush at the door of the hospital. Must be a really slow news day if they have to devote thirty seconds to me coming home. Great. Anybody who I go to school with could see me looking like a fish out of water. At least Dad was a good buffer zone for me. Hopefully, they didn't show much, just read the news copy. Hold that thought—the phone is ringing.

Dad gets to it before I do, and answers sleepily. "H'lo? Uh, yes. You want to speak to Matt? Who is this?" He is probably putting his hand over the receiver, when he whispers hoarsely to me, "You know anybody named Krissy?"

Oh, hell. "Yeah, she's a girl from Brandeis. She visited me once in the hospital."

"Oh—really?" Dad snorts, then says into the phone, "Just a minute, here he is." To me, he whispers, "Since when do girls start calling _you_?" He's not mad, just teasing me.

I take the phone, and wish I could melt into the floor. "Hello? Krissy?"

"Hey, Matt! Saw you on TV just now. Welcome home!" Shit. Guess I _was_ on the news.

"Thanks. I got home this morning." I fumble for something to talk about besides me. "How are you doing?" Okay, that was lame. I hear Dad chuckling in the bathroom. Guess he tried to give me some space, but that's hard to do in a place this small.

"Pretty good." She pauses. "Uh, well, I just wanted to say hi—and that I'm glad you're home and doing better. Did they say if you can come back to school?"

"No, I'm going to be off the rest of the semester. What a way to get a vacation, huh?" Face/palm.

She laughs nervously, and I hear someone ask who she's talking to. She doesn't answer whoever it was. "I'd hoped you'd get back soon. Everybody's been talking about you. Not in a bad way—you know what I mean. Hoping you're okay and stuff. Look, I gotta go. Mom's after me. See ya!"

"Okay, see ya, Krissy, and thanks for calling." The line goes dead, and I suppose I look puzzled, because Dad comes back with a comment. I hang up the phone.

"Well, now. Who's this Krissy, and how come you didn't tell me about her before?" He gives me a little shove on the shoulder. "She some sort of brazen hussy comin' after my boy?" He laughs.

I know I'm blushing because I feel the heat rise in my ears. "No, she's a nice girl. She and another girl from school volunteer at the hospital on the weekends, and they happened to be there, bringing the newspapers around to the rooms when I was there. We got to talking, and stuff."

"Ya don't say?" I can tell he's rather amused with my embarrassment. "How'd she get your number?"

"Uh, she asked me for it one night when she called me at the hospital. I'd have asked for hers, but I didn't have anything to write on, and how the heck was I supposed to read it if I did?"

"Good point."

"She's really nice, Dad, honest." Why do I feel like I'm making excuses here?

"Oh, I'm sure. You know her at school before? Or just meet her in the hospital?"

"Uh, I guess I've seen her at school, but didn't know her name. Not that I could say for sure. She said she'd seen me before. I don't think we had any classes together. She's in the arts program, she said." Of course, Matt, you idiot. How could you know if you'd seen her before, when you don't have a clue what she looks like?

"As long as she doesn't think she can call just any old time, I won't say anything, Matty. But I'd rather it was you callin' her, if you know what I mean. Next time, ask for her number! Can't be lettin' the good ones get away." He's enjoying my discomfort way too much. Always giving me a ration of shit when it comes to the ladies. That's my dad for you.

* * *

Dad's snoring is keeping me awake. He's always done a great chainsaw impersonation, but damn, it seems to be louder than ever. I pull on a pair of sweatpants and slide my window open as gently as possible, but the old wood scrapes unmercifully. I really don't want to wake Dad up; I just want to go out onto the fire escape and listen to the night. I slip out the window and sit back on the ledge.

It's just after midnight. Things are a bit quieter now than they were, although it never really gets quiet in Hell's Kitchen. Someone's TV is on; Letterman is making jokes about the politicians. A couple is fighting across the alley, sounds like they are about to come to blows. Two tomcats yowl and hiss, challenging each other for territory. An ambulance wails in the distance. A police radio crackles somewhere down the block. I didn't ever think about how far sound carries at night before. It's kind of interesting. Sort of like eavesdropping on the neighborhood.

Heh. I can hear somebody making the bedsprings squeak a couple floors below me. Not sure just which apartment, and I'm not sure I want to know. It's a little weird thinking about the O'Malley's or old Mr. and Mrs. Craddock getting it on. Not that old people don't do that stuff, it's just sort of, well, creepy. Especially hearing them moan like that. Ew. Makes me feel like a pervert.

I shift my focus to sounds farther away. There must be a big fire somewhere. I can hear several fire engines, smell the smoke. Seems to be coming from the direction of the river. Firefighters must have it really rough. Never a real moment's rest, and the call can come in at all hours. That's a brave bunch of guys to put it on the line every day like that. Real heroes.

The air is very cool tonight, a little too cold to stay out here. I shiver, and turn back to go inside. I'm halfway in the window when I hear Dad snort. I freeze, afraid that I'll wake him up. He resumes the sawing, and I let the breath I was holding escape. Lightly I drop back into my bedroom, and ease the window closed. Surely this squeaking is going to wake him up! I'm going to have to soap the window frame or something to make it slide quieter. He'll be all in my face if he finds me out here at night. Never mind that I've been doing it for years already. Things are different now. Way different.

All this being in the hospital stuff has really screwed up my sleeping schedule. That, and it being pitch dark all the time. I strip off my sweatpants, flop back on the bed, punch my pillow around a little, and settle back with my hands behind my head. Did I turn off the light? Or did I even turn it on when I came in here? Doesn't matter, except that the old man gets annoyed if I leave the lights burning. Surely he would have said something if I had left it on. Wait—he went to bed before I did. I jump back out of bed and check the light switch. It's off. Good. Dad won't have to worry about me turning on all the lights any more. Save on the light bill; he'll be glad about that.

Back to bed. I'm still not sleepy. I check my watch again; it's not quite one. Guess I'll have to get a talking alarm clock. Exactly how you set that kind? I know Dad will wake me up in time before that lady gets here. What is it that she's coming for? Checking to see how we live? That sucks. We do just fine. Maybe not fancy, but we aren't starving or anything. She better not give Dad a hard time about stuff. He's doing the best he can.

I'll be glad to talk to Dave again. I gotta get some serious time in with him, because I can't handle just sitting around here doing nothing, cooped up in this apartment. I'll go freakin' nuts. Maybe we'll go out somewhere tomorrow. That would be nice. It'd give Dad a chance to go to the gym, too, without worrying about what I'm doing.

Okay, maybe I'm getting sleepy a little. Dad's settled back into rhythmic breathing, and I feel myself drifting off.

* * *

"Get up, Matty! I overslept, and you need to get ready before the Lighthouse lady gets here."

I groan and stretch. "What time is it?" I jump out of bed and attempt to straighten the covers. I'm not sure just how good a job I might be doing, but I'm giving it a shot.

"Almost a quarter to nine. She'll be here at ten. You go take a shower, and I'll fix us some breakfast."

"Don't worry about it, Dad. I'll just eat some cereal. Would you get me a clean shirt and lay it out on the bed? That'll speed things up a little." I won't have to dig around and mess things up, is more what I have in mind.

"Sure thing. Clean towels are on the sink. Make sure to hang them up when you're done. Dont' want this lady to think we're slobs, ya know." He's really nervous about this inspection, or whatever you might call it.

I strip off my clothes and pile them in the hamper in the bathroom, turn on the shower, and while the water heats up, I take a leak. Flushing the john always makes the water come on hotter, so by the time it fills, the temperature is just about right. I grab a washcloth and pull the curtain closed. The water feels good, but we don't have the same water pressure as they do at the hospital; that was really nice. I better get a move on since Dad's in a hurry, so I don't waste any time getting my hair washed and the rest of me scrubbed. I dry off and hang up the wet towels behind the door on the rack, put on my underwear, and brush my teeth. It seems like it's taking forever, because each little thing has to be calculated.

Dad's put a clean shirt and a pair of pants on the bed, so all I have to hunt for is a pair of socks, and since all my socks are black anyway, there's no way I can screw up matching a pair. That's one of Jack Murdock's single dad tips: if you don't have but one color, you don't have to sort your socks.

"You about ready, Matt? I'll pour you a bowl of cereal and some milk."

"Just have to get my shoes on. Be right there." Yay! Mission accomplished. I got myself ready. I'm freakin' Wonder Boy. I hear Dad putting the bowls on the table, so I take my seat.

"Uh, son? I think you forgot something. Like your comb. Your hair's going every which way."

"Oops. I thought things were going too smooth." I backtrack to the bathroom and rake my comb through my hair, hoping I have it reasonably parted. "Is this better?" I laugh, in spite of feeling like a little kid asking for approval.

"Much better. Now have some cereal. Your milk's at two o'clock. No need to rush now. We should have plenty of time." He still sounds anxious.

"Calm down, Dad. Surely this woman won't bite." I hope not, anyway.

* * *

Dad answers the door bell. "Come in, Mrs.--" He can't remember her name.

"Foster. Estelle Foster. How do you do, Mr. Murdock? And this must be Matthew?" Her voice is shrill and creaky, like she must be ninety years old. As she comes into the living room, I get a distinct whiff of mothballs on her coat, overlaid with the smell of Polygrip. I swear I hear her dentures clack as she continues, "I have quite a few things I need to ask the two of you to assess what your needs will be from me. May I sit down?"

"Oh—yes—of course, Mrs. Foster. Here, please, sit on the couch where you can put your things on the coffee table. Will that be okay?" It better be, since there isn't much choice. "Matt, why don't you sit over here?" He grabs my elbow and forgets the protocol, dragging me toward a chair.

"Mr. Murdock, haven't you been shown some guide techniques?" Uh, oh. "You should never grab a blind person and drag them around like that." She sniffs like she's just smelled something rotten.

I interrupt. "Yes, ma'am, he has. He just forgot, is all." I can tell already that I don't like this woman.

"Well, we will have to work on that some more, it appears." She clears her throat in a most disgusting way. Gross. "Alright, Matthew, I see here that you are fifteen years old, a freshman at Louis Brandeis High School, in the honors program, and have an interest in becoming a lawyer. Is this correct?"

"Yes, it is. Or was. I—I don't know how well I'll do in school now that this has happened." I gesture vaguely at my eyes, then wish I hadn't.

Dad chimes in, "He'll do just fine. He's a real smart boy. Studies real hard. I see to that."

Mrs. Foster shuffles some papers. "Oh, I'm sure. It's my job to see that you have everything in place here at home to help you adjust to your new situation. If you don't have the proper support here at home, you will not be able to function well in school or out in the world. How long has your wife been deceased, Mr. Murdock?" Ow. Cut to the quick, why don't you, lady?

"Matt's mother has been gone since he was an infant. It's been just me and him all these years."

"I see," she sniffs again. "Who looks after Matt while you're working? A relative, perhaps?" More paper shuffling.

"Mrs. Brown. Grace Brown—she lives down the hall—she's watched after Matt since he was a baby. She's been like a grandmother to him. I don't have any relatives in town, and neither did my wife. The kids around here all call her Aunt Grace, because she's such a nice lady. Her husband died in the war, and she's lived here alone ever since. She never had any kids, and so she's just taken care of the neighborhood."

I speak up, because I'm getting tired of being talked about when I'm _right here_. "She hasn't had to babysit me since I was ten, not that I'd call it that, anyway." As soon as it's out of my mouth, I realize that was the wrong thing to say. It's going to sound like Dad lets me run the streets, and that sure isn't the case.

"What? You mean you have no supervision after school?" Mrs. Foster is aghast. "Mr. Murdock, I am afraid this will certainly not do. Child Protective Services will have to be informed about this situation immediately. If you are unable or unwilling to make arrangements for someone to stay with Matthew while you are at work, they will have to find a foster home for him."

Oh shit.

"Foster home? What the hell are you talking about, lady? Why, me and my boy—we get along just fine, thank you very much." Dad's getting louder with every word. "I can take care of him. He's not a baby, and I'm not going to treat him like one just because he can't see now."

"Now, Mr. Murdock, calm down. We just want the best for your son." She does that gross throat clearing again. Sounds like she's gonna hock up a lung.

"I know what's best for my son. And it's for him to live right here with me, just like always. Just get the hell out of my house. Right now!"

"But, Mr. Murdock—we haven't finished the evaluation."

Dad stands his ground. "I said—get out! And don't let the door hit you in the ass."

She's hurriedly gathering up her things. "Someone will be contacting you later about this. Good day."

Dad slams the door after her, rattling the windows and I swear all the dishes in the cupboards. He turns to me and says, "Matty, there's no way I'm gonna let that old bitch take you away from me. No. Fucking. Way."

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

End of Innocence

Chapter 4

I can't believe what just happened. Dad's never just tossed someone out of the house like that, even though a few of his drunk buddies have gotten a little rowdy in here at times. Really, I love it that he took up for us. He just made me way more proud of him.

"Wow, you really gave her the what-for, didn't you?"

Dad's breathing heavily, the rage still in his voice as he paces back and forth. "Nobody—_nobody_ is going to tell me that I don't know how to raise my kid. The nerve of that woman to suggest I can't take care of you, or that you can't take care of yourself. Well, you'll be able to soon enough. Who the hell does she think she is? Miz High-and-Mighty coming in here and talking to _me_ like that. Damn!"

There's a timid knock on the door. Surely Mrs. Foster isn't back already. Dad snorts and grumps to himself, "Who the hell is _that_ gonna be?" He jerks the door open. "Oh, Gracie! Hi."

"May I come in, Jack?" she asks quietly. "Is everything okay over here? I heard the door slam, and looked out just in time to see someone hurrying down the stairs."

"Sure, come on in. Sit down, please. I think I need someone to talk to about this." He's really upset.

"I'm not trying to meddle in your business, Jack, I hope you know that." I can imagine her fiddling with the hem of her dress, the way she does when she's nervous. "What's going on? Anything I can do to help?"

"That was the woman from the Lighthouse coming to do an evaluation on me and Matt. She started off wrong by insinuating that since Matt was alone in the house sometimes before the accident, that I'm not taking care of him like I should. You know that isn't so."

"Of course it's not, Jack. Matt's a very well-behaved and conscientious young man, and he's never been in any trouble. Unlike a lot of kids around here. Why would she get such an idea?"

"It was my fault, Aunt Grace," I explain. "None of this would have happened if I'd kept my mouth shut. All I said was that I hadn't needed a babysitter since I was about ten. It just didn't come out right. That set her off."

"Oh, so she thinks you are just a latchkey kid, huh? Didn't you tell her that you always check by my place when you come home? It's not like someone doesn't know where you are. You always come straight home from school, or call me to let me know where you are if you're going to be late."

"No, I didn't get a chance. She started going off about Child Protective Services and foster homes and that stuff. That got Dad mad and he threw her out of here."

Aunt Grace inhales sharply. "No! That's terrible! They need to know that I help look after you, even though you're about grown. We've got to straighten this out for you."

"Maybe we can call the Lighthouse and talk to someone else about this before she sics the authorities on us. I don't really know how to handle this. But they are not taking _my_ son! No way, no how!"

His tone is beginning to worry me. "Would they really think about taking me away from you, Dad? I mean—how is that even possible? We've been doing just fine all these years. What's so different now? Besides the obvious, that is."

Dad is pacing the floor again, and I can imagine him flailing his arms, giving an unseen foe the one-two punch. "That dried-up old biddy better not turn me in for neglect. Why, I'll—I'll..."

"Simmer down, Jack," Aunt Grace says in her familiar peace-keeping tone. "We'll figure this out. We just have to tell the truth to the authorities, and they'll see that everything is fine here. Don't worry." She turns to me and asks, "Matt, are you doing okay? Is there anything I can help you with right now? Have you two thought about lunch yet?"

"No, ma'am, we're good. We didn't eat until late. But, thanks." I'm determined that no one is going to baby me. It might take me longer to do things, but I'm damn sure going to do for myself.

"We'll be fine, Grace. Really do appreciate your concern. I'll let you know if we need for you to talk to someone." He's stopped pacing, and his breathing has calmed down. That's good.

"Call me if you need anything, then, boys. I'll be home. Just knock." With that, she leaves us to wonder what's next.

* * *

"Hey, Dave, come on in!"

"Thanks, Jack. Hey, Matt, how's it going?" He claps me on the shoulder, and I reach out to shake his hand. He's not a really big guy like Dad, judging from the size of his hands, but he's taller than I am, with a firm, sincere handshake.

"Not bad. Feels good to be home, you know?" Hope I get to stay here.

"No place like home, yeah. Say, Jack, word got back to me that things didn't go too well with Mrs. Foster this morning. What happened?"

News travels fast, especially the bad kind. "It was my fault. She wanted to know who I stayed with after school when Dad wasn't home, and I let it out that I haven't needed a babysitter since I was ten. She jumped all over that. Didn't even let us explain that if Dad's not here, I check in with Aunt Grace down the hall." The words just tumble out of me, I'm so exasperated. "Well, she's not really my aunt, but that's what everybody around here calls her. She lives down the hall, and I always let her know where I am if I'm not home by a certain time."

"Yeah, it's not like the boy ever ran the streets, or nothin'," Dad interjects. "That old biddy was all over me about having to call Child Services or whatever it's called, to turn me in because Matt didn't have a mother here during the day. We can't help that. But Matty here is a good kid, studies hard. If he's not straight home, he's at the library studying. He's never been in trouble a day in his life."

Not that Dad ever found out about, anyway. There was that time I swiped that nightstick from that fat beat cop the summer I was ten, but I didn't get caught. Almost, though, and it was enough to keep me from pulling that sort of stunt again. Just the fear of Dad getting pissed was enough. He's only slapped me once, but I'll never cross him again on purpose, that's for sure. Never fuck with a guy who's a pro boxer.

"I know from what I've got in my notes that Matt isn't the type to prowl the streets. You can't do that and make his kind of grades." Dave opens some sort of case and shuffles some papers.

"You wanna put that stuff over here on the table, Dave? It's to your left by the window. Uh—about six feet, sorry."

"I've still got some light perception, Jack, so I can make out the window, thanks. Spreading this out on the table will make this a lot easier." Dad pulls out a chair for Dave, and I follow them over and sit opposite him. More shuffling and it dawns on me that it's probably brailled stuff. I keep forgetting that Dave's blind, too. That must be the sound of his fingers running across the pages. How long will it take me to learn that?

"Okay, Matt. I need to make sure I have several things correct before we head out for our first lesson. I have your address, of course, or I couldn't have found you, and your phone number because I called you yesterday to set this up today. Let's see—your primary doctor is Samuel Pruitt at St. Vincent's, and I have his number in case of emergency. Now I need a contact person besides your dad. Who would that be?"

"I suppose Aunt Grace, huh, Dad?" She's the closest thing we have to relatives in town.

"What's her last name?" Dave asks, and I hear him slide something else out of his case. He starts making some weird kind of pecking noise, like the pigeons out on the ledge. "And her phone number?"

"Uh—Grace Brown, 555-1602. What _is_ that sound?"

Dave laughs at me. "Get used to it, Matt. I'm taking notes on a braille slate. You use a stylus—here, hold out your hand—and you punch the dots into the paper from the back so when you turn it over you can read it."

He puts the small object in my hand and I examine it. It feels like it has a wooden handle, shaped like a flattened cylinder that has a blunt metal point on it. Bigger than a needle, but smaller than a nail. "How does it work?"

Dave hands me a metal bar that has a hinge on one end. "You open this up—this is the slate—and line your note card or paper up in here like this." He guides my hands as he talks. "The side with the square holes goes on the top; feel that? Then you clamp the paper in the slate—it's got little grip things to hold it in place—and then you start brailling from the right side to the left. It's backwards from how you read it."

"Geez, how do you remember where you're putting the holes?" This is total Greek to me.

"I'm not a braille teacher, so I'm not going to try to explain it a lot, okay? But there are six dots possible in a braille cell—that's one grouping of dots. The holes in the top of the slate have slight indentations so that when you run the stylus along the edge of that squared hole—like this"; he puts the slate on the table and places my right hand on a hole in it, "—you can tell what spot you're poking the dot into. Feel those little dents? The dots are numbered from top to bottom from right to left on a slate. Dot one is "a", dots one and two make "b", and so on." I must look confused, because I am.

"Maybe I'm not quite ready for this?"

"Like I said, I'm no braille teacher. So, let me have that stuff back, and we'll get done with the paperwork part." I gladly relinquish the stylus and slate, and he resumes the questions.

"Do you guys have a family pastor or priest?"

"Father Everett is the priest at St. Michael's where Matt used to be an altar boy when he was younger, and we still go to mass there once in a while. Why?"

"It might be a good idea if you called him while we're out, so that you can line up support if this thing with Child Protective Services gets nasty. That's good that he's known you for a while, because that'll count a lot toward proving that you have Matt's best interests at heart, you know?"

"Yeah, I s'pose it would. Good idea. I'll do that. What else do you need to know?"

Dave gathers up his papers and begins packing up. "That's about it for now, Jack. I do have a consent form here for you to sign that gives me permission to take Matt out for his orientation and mobility lessons. There should be an "x" there on the bottom, and please date it for me."

"'Scuse me for being blunt, Dave, but how the hell did you know which one of those papers was the thing I needed to sign?"

"Simple! It was the flat one with the paper clip on the corner and a sticky note on it."

"Oh." Sometimes my old man can be a little dense. Gotta admit that was sorta funny.

Dad scribbles his signature, and Dave zips up his bag. "You ready to rock 'n' roll, Matthew?" Dave chides. "Go grab your cane, and let's head out."

I retrieve my cane from my room, check that I have my watch and my wallet—not that I have any money in it—and come back into the living room as Dave tells Dad, "I'll do what I can to get another case worker here for the occupational therapy stuff. That Estelle is so old and grumpy that she makes Methuselah look like a frat boy. Don't worry, okay? Matt and I will be gone a couple of hours on our excursion around the neighborhood, and if we run into any problems, we've got a quarter to call you. See ya!"

With that, we're out the door and down the stairs to the street.


	5. Chapter 5

End of Innocence

Chapter 5

We're standing outside my building; the busy street sounds much too close, causing me to flinch. Dave inhales deeply like he's taking in some ocean breeze or something. I just smell exhaust fumes and pigeonshit.

"You did those stairs really well, Matt. Good thing we practiced that some before you left the hospital. I'm glad that I only live on the second floor of my building. Climbing up to the fourth every day would kill me."

"Geez, you sound like you're a hundred or somethin', Dave. Say, how old are you anyway?" I guess that's not being too nosy.

"How about you take a guess?"

"Hm...forty? I figure you're a little older than Dad. He's thirty-five."

"You're killin' me!" I imagine him clutching at his heart, like Redd Foxx on Sanford and Son. "C'mon, Matt. What makes you think that?"

"Well, you griping about the stairs and stuff. And you've got this good job, even though you're going blind, so you have to have worked at it for a while. I dunno." Hadn't really thought about it. "And your voice is kinda deep."

Dave practically roars with laughter. "I'm really ancient, Matt. Older than dirt. Almost twice as old as you are. Twenty-eight."

I'm astounded. "Holy crap, Dave. I'm sorry. Hope I didn't offend you." He's still laughing.

"Don't tell your old man I told you this, but just remember: never judge the book by its cover, or in our case, don't make assumptions by the sound of things. The sexiest sounding babes on the planet might be ugly as sin. That's who usually works those phone sex lines. At least that's what they tell me. Not that I would have ever called one of those, of course," he snickers, and so do I. "You ready for some adventure? And not THAT kind. Let's go."

He taps my hand, signaling for me to take his arm. "Are we going sighted guide at first?" I ask, a little confused. I thought this was a cane lesson.

"Yeah. Let's mess with the sighties—that's what we blindies call other people—and see how long it takes for someone to want to help us both across the street. It always screws with people to see a guy with a cane guiding another guy. Hold your cane in the other hand, close to your body, out of the way, and we'll do a little exploring around here. Not that you don't already know this neighborhood like the back of your hand. You've lived here all your life, right?"

"So far, yeah. Now it's going to be a lot different."

"Why's that? Did they move any buildings in the past week or so? You just have to concentrate a little more to remember where you are. You're lucky in that you're old enough to know the cardinal directions—you know, north, south, east, west. All that's still the same. Nobody moved the sun while you've been away."

"Yeah, but—I can't..."

"Can't what? Man, that's not even going to enter into your vocabulary with me. You know why? Because I know what it's like to not be able to read the street signs, to see the doorway into a building. There's nothing that you'll encounter that I haven't. See, when I went for my training, they had us train under sleepshades, so if we had any residual vision, we couldn't use it to cheat. I'm not a total, yet. But I _have_ trained extensively as one, so believe me when I tell you that you can do this."

"If you say so." I'm not totally convinced here.

"Yeah, I say so. Now we're going head west along 47th. You don't have to count steps. I want you to listen for the sound shadows of buildings and other things, okay?"

"Okay."

"And listen to the echoes that come from my cane tip. That can give you some additional information. When we get a little farther down the route, I'll have you walk with your own cane, and you can get a better feel for it. But for now, just follow along with me, and I promise I won't walk you into more than three or four lamp posts before we get to the curb."

I laugh, and Dave has managed to break my apprehensive mood. "Let's boogie, then."

Dave starts out at an almost frantic-feeling pace, weaving around a sidewalk vendor, and I have to lengthen my stride a little to keep up. Guy's not gonna cut me any slack, for sure. His cane taps a rhythmic beat on the sidewalk, and I do my best to focus on the sound, while thinking about where we are.

"Walking too fast for you, Matt?"

"Uh—no, I can keep up."

"You sure? I can slow it down a notch."

"Yeah, I'll tell you if it gets too much for me." It just might at this rate, but I don't want to look like a wimp.

"Alright. We're coming up to the intersection of 47th and 9th Avenue. We're not going to cross the street here; we'll save that for the next block. Okay, what's on the corner here, to our left?"

"A bicycle shop. Not that I ever had one. I think they must do a lot of repairs for bike couriers, though, from what I've seen."

"Okay, turning left here. Watch out, the traffic's picking up. What's along here? Don't guess where we are in the block, notice what you hear and smell that gives you a hint."

I catch the scent of the drycleaner as we pass by the open door, and hear the hiss of the steam press inside. "Empire Cleaners. They've been around forever, and when I was little, that steam press used to scare me with the sound it made. I sometimes would watch the lady throw the white dress shirts on that thing that makes the collars stand up, and wonder how guys could wear that much starch."

"Now that's a good sound cue! What's this place?"

"Easy, there's a little bakery next door, and then the laundromat where Dad and I come. I can smell the bread, then the detergent and fabric softener, plus hear the washers and dryers running."

Dave stops for a moment, and a lady pushing a baby stroller passes us. The kid's got a load in his diaper. Ew. "Do you guys do your own clothes, or just drop them off?"

"Mostly we do our own, except Dad has a few shirts he gets ironed. He hates to iron."

"So do I," Dave laughs, "but I've got a news flash for you; that's something you're going to learn to do for yourself at the Lighthouse, little buddy."

I slap my forehead in mock grief. "No, not _ironing_! That's women's work!" We start down the street again when—CLANG! Dave's cane hits something on the sidewalk. We come to a screeching halt.

"What's this, Matt?" He brings me up beside him. "Use your cane and tell me what's in front of us."

I reach out with my cane about a foot when I find what he's talking about. "Oh, I'd forgotten about this basement business here. There's this fence thing that sticks out halfway to the street. It's the steps down into a beauty shop or something. Stuff's always moving in and out of here."

"Good thing that barrier is there, huh? So, how do we get around this? Tell me what we need to do."

"Thought you were the teacher, Dave. What _do_ we do?" Why doesn't he just tell me?

"This is part of structured discovery, Matt. We run into a problem, we learn how to solve it by thinking about it. If I just tell you every little thing, you won't learn much on your own. Now, think—what's the best way to get around this thing? Without falling down the stairs, of course."

"I dunno. Maybe run your hand down the railing until it ends, then go around?" Sounds reasonable to me.

"Do you know how much crap is probably on that rail? Eww!" He makes me shudder to think about it. I can remember seeing pigeons sitting on it. "Better way. How about using your cane to find the end of the railing? Then you can turn and continue down the sidewalk. Take my elbow again, and we'll do that."

I latch back onto his arm, and I listen as his cane finds the barricade, and we turn at the end. He stops again.

"Listen to this, Matt." He taps to the right, then with the left swing, nothing. "There's your stairs. I bet you never noticed that they came right to the end of this railing, did you? Gotta watch for stuff like that. Otherwise, you'll be ending up at the bottom of someplace you never meant to be."

"Gotcha." No, I never thought a second about where the stairs were. I just ran around the end of the barricade, or sailed past it on my skateboard.

"This has definitely got to be a meat market on the other side here, am I right?"

"Oh, yeah. This is the butcher shop I come to all the time. Does have its own aroma." It smells really strong to me, almost like something's going bad in there. Ick. "Next door to that is a glass and mirror place. Guess that's irrelevant now. Past that is the barber shop where Dad and I come." I can smell that aftershave stuff the old men use, and hear the buzz of the clippers.

"Excellent. We're coming to the corner."

"Yeah, I smell the seafood coming out of that restaurant. Can you believe I've never been in there? In the same block I live in?"

"Well, I'm allergic to shellfish, so I wouldn't go in there, either, but yeah, I can believe it. Get ready. We're going to get all brave and cross the street!"

"All by ourselves?" I gasp in fake horror.

"Yep. Okay, Matt. We're at the curb. Reach out with your cane and locate it." I do as he says. "Listen to the traffic. Which direction is it coming from?"

"Behind us, on 9th , and from our right on 46th ."

"Good. Which way is the light green right now?"

I have to stop and think. "I hear the traffic beside us on 9th moving, so that means we have the light, right?"

"Yes, but since it's one way, you have to remember that there can be cars turning left here."

"Okay, how do I keep from getting run over?" Seems a legitimate question.

"Hopefully, drivers will see that long white stick you're carrying, and yield right of way to you. This being New York, though, you really have to listen for the traffic. I always just wait for the next signal, because it can be hard to tell how long you have to get across if the light has been green awhile. We'll wait for the next one. It just changed. Hear the cross traffic now?"

"Yeah, I do. Do you want me to do sighted guide with you, or what?" Before I finish that sentence, I feel someone grab my arm. And it's not Dave.

"Here, let me help you boys across the street." It's the proverbial little old lady from the sound of things.

"No thank you, ma'am," Dave interrupts. "We're fine."

"But—but...", she trails off as the light changes.

"Let's go, Matt. I'll be right in front of you." Dave starts across the street. I shake off her grip and follow on my own. I don't hear her behind me, so I guess she's just standing there looking befuddled.

"Thanks anyway, ma'am." I say, smiling, with a backward wave of my hand. "I'm right behind you Dave."

"Curb!" Dave says over his shoulder. "Don't hit me with your cane when you get up here. I'm to your right." I feel the curb and step up beside him. He's easy to find, because he's laughing so hard.

"Made it! In one piece!" We're both laughing now. People around us must think we're blind _and_ crazy.

"See? Not even a block away from home, and already some kind stranger is trying to help the Dynamic Duo across the street. The nerve of those sighted people!" He stifles the laughter. "Okay, time to get serious again. The traffic is sort of heavy along here, so we'll walk sighted guide for the next block, and then we'll cross the street that way, too, this time. Even though the other pedestrians won't consider it anything other than the blind leading the blind. I want you to take my left arm again, mainly because that will put me closer to the parallel curb." He taps my hand, and off we go again.

* * *

A couple of blocks and street crossings later, I think I'm beginning to get an idea of how all this works. So many places are identifiable by the sounds or smells that I've been able to keep my sense of direction fairly well.

"Alright, Matt, I think we've earned a little bit of a reward for the hard work this afternoon, so how about some ice cream or some dessert over here at the diner?"

"Cool! I think this must be the Westway Diner. Dad and I come down here once a month or so, or for some special occasion, like him winning a fight. They make killer apple pie over here."

"One hundred percent correct! I come over here myself when I'm in this part of town. Let's go in. Follow my lead."

"Sure, Fearless Leader!"

We enter the diner, the silvery-toned bell above announcing our arrival. This is the old kind of diner, nothing special, nothing to look at—not that it matters now—just a little worn around the edges. Dave navigates our way to the counter, where we take our seats on the round padded stools.

"Just put your cane by your feet, up next to the counter, Matt, where no one will trip on it. I've got a fold-up one that I stick in my jacket pocket or my back pants pocket sometimes. We'll see about getting you one like that. They make a good spare to carry in case you break one. And you will."

I'm taking care of stowing my cane when the waitress comes up. "Hi, boys, what can I get for you? Need to see a menu?" She must not be looking up at us, until now. "Oops."

"Don't suppose you have a braille menu handy?" Dave tries to smooth over her faux pas.

"Uh, no sir. But I can tell you today's specials." She's talking a little too loud now.

"We'd just like some pie and something to drink. What's good today?"

"Lemme see, we have lemon meringue, chocolate, apple, and blueberry. You want coffee with that? How 'bout your young friend here? He want a Pepsi?" Still a bit too loud.

Dave answers first. "I'd like the apple pie, with ice cream, and coffee. You can ask Matt here what he'd like. I'm sure he knows better than I do."

"S-sure. What can I get you, young man?"

"I'll take the same, except I'd like a Coke."

"We don't have Coke here, just Pepsi. That okay?"

"Yes, ma'am, that's fine, thanks." Whatever.

"Be right back with that, fellas," she says, and I imagine a tired looking woman with bleached-blond or

bottled-red hair retreating to the kitchen.

"Do people always talk real loud to blind people, Dave? What's with that?" I'm beginning to notice a pattern here.

"Unfortunately, it happens way too often, Matt. Get used to it. Depending on the situation, you can sort of let people know that you aren't deaf, too. You'll get to the point where you'll know when that's appropriate."

"Dave, I haven't eaten out in public since—you know." I'm very uncomfortable right now. "What happens if I drop my fork or something?"

"You just ask the waitress for another fork, just like the next guy would, and don't worry about it."

The waitress announces herself with the food. "Here you go, boys! Two apple pies a la mode, and a coffee for you, sir, and a Pepsi--" she sets it down with a thunk, "--for you!" The pie lands in front of us. "Forks on your right. Do you need cream with that coffee, sir?"

"No, I'm good, thanks." He waits until we hear her greet someone else down the counter, then says to me, "I learned to drink black coffee so I wouldn't have to mess with the sugar and cream. Saves on the fuss factor when you have a too-helpful waitress."

"Ah, good logic, there, Dave. I'll keep that in mind." I carefully locate my pie and fork, and dig in. This place really does have killer pie. Yum.

A couple of bites later, and I ask, "What are we gonna do about Mrs. Foster, Dave? She sounds like trouble."

Dave takes a sip of his coffee, and sets it down in the saucer with a clink. "I don't think she has any grounds for getting so upset, but we might have to call in a few character witnesses on your behalf. She's about ready to retire, and honestly, I wish she'd hurry up. You aren't the first kid she's reported to CPS, but I hope you're the last. As far as getting you started with occupational therapy, I'm going to see if I can get you changed to a new therapist that just came to work at the Lighthouse. She's right out of college, very pleasant lady. Name's Shannon Worley. I think you'll like her."

"Anybody's got to be better than Mrs. Foster. What a bi--"

Dave cuts me off. "Battleax, I know."

"She came off a lot worse than that! We barely sat down to talk when she got all riled up about where I spend my afternoons after school. I'm scared she's gonna twist what I said around to make it look like Dad's not being a good father. Man, that just isn't right!" I stab at my pie with the fork, missing it completely. Damn.

"She's old school, Matt. Back when everybody seemed to have a family like the Cleavers. She doesn't stop to think how many other situations there are out in the world. Most of her clients are elderly people who are going blind gradually, so she's not used working with younger ones who are adventitiously blind. We'll get around this, trust me."

"Adven—what? What does that mean?"

"Big word that means you had an accident, rather than had a disease, that's all."

"Oh. Tell me again what happened to you, if you don't mind. I didn't quite get why you're blind." I round up another bite of apple pie and hope I get some ice cream on there, too. If I was at home, I'd use my fingers, but I'll just have to let it go. Finesse, Matt.

"Retinitis pigmentosa. It's an inherited thing."

I take a swallow of Pepsi, and my curiosity gets the best of me, so I press on with the questions. "How long have you had it?"

"All my life, I guess. I just didn't know about it until college."

"So, how did you find out you had it?"

"I'd always been near-sighted, wore glasses as a kid, and contacts since high school. I started getting headaches sometimes, and would get these bright flashes kind of out in the sides. I thought I might be having migraines or something, because I'd heard you can get that with them."

"I only had one flash. That was the last thing I ever saw."

"Bummer. Yeah, that had to be awful. I heard about your accident on the news."

"Anyway, go ahead, didn't mean to interrupt you, sorry." Back to the pie.

"That's okay. I didn't think anything more about it until I started noticing stuff like having a little trouble in dim light, like coming back to the dorm at night. The thing that made me notice was when I went out on a date one night—took this hot girl from my psyche class to see a movie—and when I went into the theater, I couldn't see, because the movie had just started. Had to cover for myself by asking her to pick out a spot for us to sit."

"Geez, embarrassing!"

"No kidding. Could have been worse though. I could have tried to be all macho, and shoved her into some other dude's lap!"

He makes me laugh. "Sorry, Dave, but that's a great mental picture," I snort.

"Yeah. Anyhow, it was about time for me to go get my eyes checked, so I made an appointment with my optometrist. No way I was prepared for what he asked me."

"What'd he say?"

"He wanted to know if I'd had any trouble falling over things. I said, yeah, I've always been a klutz, though, so what about it? Then, he asked if I had trouble seeing in dim light. I told him about the thing in the theater, sort of laughing it off. He was dead serious. Told me, 'Dave, I need to send you to an ophthalmologist, a specialist. I think you have a problem that new contacts aren't going to help.' Man, you could have knocked me over with a feather." He pauses to take a sip of coffee. "He sent me to this other doctor. That's when I found out I had RP, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to keep from eventually going blind."

"What did you say when he told you?"

"Hate to admit it, but I let loose a whole string of f-bombs. I was shocked, pissed off, you name it. I wanted to punch the doctor in the face. Of course I didn't. But I went into denial, big time. I wouldn't tell anybody. I thought if I didn't, it wouldn't happen."

"How long before you had to admit it?"

"I have the kind of RP that starts at the outside edges and works its way in, so I developed tunnel vision. The next time I went up for a driver's license, I couldn't pass the eye test. They caught me on the peripheral vision thing. When I had to stop driving, I had to explain why. I didn't live in New York then. I lived outside of Boston, and I had a car. There's not a great mass transit system like there is here. Consider yourself fortunate to live here for that reason."

The waitress interrupts. "Can I get you boys anything else? More coffee, sir?" It's the middle of the afternoon, so she doesn't seem to be trying to push us out the door, like I've seen when it's busy in here.

"Sure, I'll take a refill. How 'bout you, Matt?"

"I'm good, thanks."

She tops off his cup, and we resume the conversation. "What did you do about college? Did you keep going, or what?"

Dave sighs. "Yeah, I kept going. Once I knew about the prognosis, though, I changed majors. I'd been taking things to prepare for a degree in architecture. I talked it over with some career counselors, and found I could probably convert most of the coursework to business administration. It wasn't my intended goal, but maybe I could work for an architectural firm as a business manager. I finished school before I had to get serious about transitioning out of the sighted world. I was already legally blind by the end of my junior year, but I was a stubborn shit about getting any training."

"At least you had some time to get ready. I don't have any choice. It's now or never." I toss back the rest of my Pepsi. The ice clinks loudly in the glass.

"Honestly? I don't know which is worse—having a horrendous accident like you did, or having things going south over a matter of time, waiting for the other shoe to drop." Another big sigh. "Neither one is a Sunday picnic, that's for sure."

"No lie." He's got that right.

The waitress comes back around. "Here's your check, sir." Let's see how Dave handles this.

"What's the total, ma'am?"

"Four-fifty."

Dave must be pulling out some bills from his wallet. "Here you go. Please keep the change." He turns to me, and I hear him unfolding his cane. "Ready to go, Matt?"

"Yeah, let me get my cane down here." I bend over to retrieve it and-- "Ow!" I bang my head on the counter. Misjudged the distance.

"A little tip, Matt. Put your other hand on the counter—or table, whatever—before you lean down to pick something up. Saves wear and tear on your noggin."

I rub the sore spot that will become a goose egg later. "Thanks for telling me, dude." At least I don't hear anyone laughing. It's more like dead silence. Not sure which is worse.

* * *

We're making good time back up the street when I ask, "How did you know that you didn't give that waitress a twenty back there? That would have been a helluva tip."

"Nobody's explained to you about folding your money yet? Well, I suppose they haven't. I fold my fives in half sideways , the tens in half sideways twice, and the twenties in half longways. Don't fold the ones. Different people do it different ways, but as long as you're consistent, you'll find your own system for it."

"What about fifties and hundreds?"

"What about 'em? You think I ever get any of those? I'm joking. I seldom do, but if I do, it would be from the bank, and I'd put them in a different section of my wallet."

"Yeah, fat chance I'll ever get my hands on any of those."

"Please! When you're a hot shot lawyer, you'll be rolling in the dough." He cuffs me on the arm.

"Riiiiight." Clunk. Just whacked a tree. Better with my cane than my face. "So, back to your career change. When did you decide to get into this line of work?"

"After I couldn't find a job right out of college, it was time to think about rehab. I had to register with the state so I could get into a program, and they sent me to the Carroll Center in Newton, Mass. Their program was built on the rehab that the Veterans Administration had developed after World War II. Not bad, but there were some things that I found lacking. I had joined the local chapter of the NFB, and they had some different ideas about how rehab should be set up."

"What's the NFB?"

"Oh, sorry. The National Federation of the Blind. The NFB people talked me into going to their facility out in Colorado, and since I wasn't doing much else, I said, why not? Always wanted to see Colorado. Okay, bad joke. Anyway, that's a residential program where you live out there while you learn the blindie stuff—braille, orientation and mobility, housekeeping, job skills, you know. That's where I did the training under sleepshades. They don't seem to like the terminology 'blindfold'. Whatever. Even though I still had some usable vision, a good bit more than I have now, I was basically in the same boat you're in."

"Why don't they let you use what you've got?" I know I would if I had a choice.

"Because, they have this philosophy that everyone should be at the same place in training, and since a lot of people—like me—are going to eventually lose most remaining sight, we might as well learn the 'blind' way to do everything. Not everybody agrees with that, but that's the NFB way."

"Sounds pretty harsh."

"I thought so, too, but I went with it, and now I'm pretty glad I did. I did so well in the training that they asked me if I might want to become a certified instructor. I went back to school down in Louisiana for a while, and got my degree in blind rehabilitation there. As soon as I finished, I got on up here at the Lighthouse as one of the first blind instructors. I really do love my job. And that, as they say, is the rest of the story."

"For what it's worth, I think you're real good at it. I sure could have gotten some old fart for an instructor."

"Waitaminit, now. An hour ago, you thought I _was_ an old fart. You said so yourself!"

"Sorry."

* * *

The rest of our walk is fairly uneventful. Dave points out to me the various types of sound shadows that objects make, and how the sound changes when we walk under some trees or a canopy. I remember that from our first walk, and begin to notice how I can tell if there is a car parked or stopped next to us at the curb, even if it's not running. I haven't run into any lamp posts, but had a near miss with a telephone booth. They're a lot easier to miss since they're up on those poles instead of being a real booth anymore.

We climb the four floors back up to my apartment. I get an uneasy feeling just before we reach our landing.

"And now, here we are, safe and sound, back at your door. I'm assuming your Dad keeps it locked, like any sane person in Hell's Kitchen, so go ahead and knock." There are voices, angry ones, coming from inside our apartment.

I find the door with my cane, and step up to knock, but just as I lift my hand, Dad opens the door.

"Matt, the people from Child Protective Services are here."


	6. Chapter 6

End of Innocence

Chapter 6

Holy crap. Mrs. Foster sure didn't waste any time turning us in to the authorities. I'm sure I have a shocked expression on my face, because I can't believe what I hear. It's the old bat herself, arguing with another woman whose voice is unfamiliar. Aunt Grace is talking calmly to someone—oh, it's Father Everett. Dad says to us, "Don't stand out in the hall, guys. Come on in and join the chaos. Dave, I'm sorry to have to get you involved in this mess. Maybe you can help talk some sense into the Lighthouse lady? She's in here raising hell with everybody. "

Dave follows me into the living room. Our little apartment seems like there are twenty people in it, and the heated discussion is matched by the heat of all their bodies. I smell nervous sweat on someone, maybe even several people. I can't sort it all out. I turn to where I think Dave is. "What am I gonna do?"

He puts his hand on my shoulder and says, "Hang on, Matt, let me try to handle Mrs. Foster. She knows me from work." Dave jumps into the conversation. "Excuse me. Mrs. Foster? What seems to be the problem here?"

Mrs. Foster's shrill voice rises above the rest, "I'm telling you, this is no place for a blind boy to be left alone! Just look at this neighborhood! It's not safe for a sighted child!"

"Beg ta differ with ya, ma'am," replies a resonant voice, one I know I've heard, but can't place just yet.

"This is my beat, and this is a good building here, nice folks." Ah! It's Officer O'Malley, the fat cop that I swiped a billy club from when I was ten. He never did find out it was me, thank goodness. I outran him easily, even then. "Why, I never have a complaint coming outta this building. I'd know, it's been my beat for most of the past ten years."

"Matt is hardly a boy now. He's quite a responsible young man." Aunt Grace takes up for me. "He always checks in with me when he comes home from school or the library, just like I tried to tell you before. I always know where he is when Jack isn't home."

Father Everett backs her up. "That's a fact, ma'am. Of all the kids in this neighborhood, Matthew is probably the least likely one to ever get into trouble. I've known him and Jack for years."

"But—but, that was before!" Mrs. Foster shrieks. "The practice was questionable then, but it's totally irresponsible now that the child is blind and helpless."

"Helpless?" Now it's Dave's turn to be angry. "Just what makes you think Matt is helpless? He's one of the quickest studies I've ever had! I can't believe you have that attitude as long as you've worked at the Lighthouse, Mrs. Foster! Do you think I'm helpless, too?" He's livid. "Well? Do you?"

"Now, David, of course not," she coos, changing tactics. "But, you aren't completely blind like Matthew. And he's just a child. He shouldn't be expected to be able to stay by himself, nor should he be allowed to. It's just not safe."

Officer O'Malley coughs nervously. I can hear him shuffling his feet, and he murmurs under his breath, "What a bitch."

Dad speaks up, "Like Grace said, Matt's not a little kid. He's practically grown, and I know that before long he'll be back up to speed around here. And it's not like I'm gone every single day when he comes home. I'm gone at different times, and I can rearrange my schedule for a while until he learns how to do everything again."

I'm so stunned, I just stand here. I can't think of a thing to say, and I'm afraid if I do, I'll say the wrong thing and just stir things up more. None of this would have happened if I'd kept my mouth shut the first time Mrs. Foster was here.

The voice I don't recognize asks, "Mr. Murdock, exactly what type of work do you do?"

"I'm a pro boxer, but I also work some odd jobs around the docks for extra money. What's that got to do with anything?"

I finally find my voice. "Who is this lady, Dad? Who all is here? Tell me. You guys are acting like I'm invisible or something. This is _my_ life you're talking about. I have a right to know."

"I'm Annamarie Williams, Matthew. I'm with the Child Protective Services here in the city. I'm a social worker who has been assigned to investigate your case. Mrs. Foster called my office today, and it's my job to follow up on any reports I receive. I'm here on your behalf."

"So, Ms. Williams, are you going to take me away from my father?" I get right to the point.

"Now, Matty, don't be rude," Dad chides.

"Rude? Some woman who was here for less than ten minutes this morning accuses you of neglecting me, and turns us in to the authorities, and I'm being rude? I'm sorry, Dad, but I'm just plain mad now. How dare she do this to us?"

"Young man, I am trying to have your best interest at heart. It's my job to see that blind people learn to take care of themselves," Mrs. Foster says haughtily. "Your father doesn't seem to understand the implications of leaving a blind child home alone."

"I'm not going to leave him home alone!" Dad fairly shouts at her. "Can't I get that through to you?"

"Just a moment, everyone." It's Ms. Williams, who seems to be the peacemaker type. "Mr. Murdock, I understand that you intend to be here, or have Mrs. Brown, your neighbor, here when Matthew is not in school, is that correct?"

"Yes, ma'am. That's what I've been trying to get across to this—this—_woman_ over here. Matt's not a little kid. He knows how to stay out of danger. He's very responsible, a smart young man. Please, please, don't let this woman make a big deal outta something that's not even an issue. Look around you; this place ain't much, but it's clean and decent. It was good enough for my boy last week, and it's good enough—and I'm good enough—for him now."

"Jack's a good man, I can vouch for that," Officer O'Malley speaks up. "I'm glad that I was the cop they called to escort you on the home visit, because there's not a better dad around here than Jack Murdock is to his boy. And Matthew here, we could use more kids in the neighborhood like him." Thank goodness he never found out about that nightstick deal.

"That's right." Father Everett adds. "Most of the kids around here would be lucky to have a man like Jack for a father. He's firm with Matthew, but fair. He's never failed to have food on the table or clean, decent clothes for the lad. He's raised Matthew without a mother, making sure he knows right from wrong, too. I'll be a witness to that."

"Mrs. Foster, I'm embarrassed that you would cause such a stir for these fine people." Dave to the defense. "Matt's hardly been out of the hospital twenty-four hours, and you threaten to yank him out of his home. He's barely had long enough to breathe before you pulled this pitbull act. I'm going to suggest that someone else take over Matt's case for occupational therapy, and that you go back to working with the old folks you normally do. Ms. Williams?"

I hear Mrs. Foster inhale sharply, like she's about to blow up. Before she can start sputtering again, Ms. Williams says, "I don't believe we have been introduced, Mr.---?"

"Bryant, Dave Bryant. I'm Matt's orientation and mobility instructor from the Lighthouse. Good to meet you, but I'm sorry it's under these circumstances. Do you see any real reason that Matt should be taken out of the custody of his father? As far as I know, this is just a huge misunderstanding." I hear him nervously bouncing his cane on the floor.

"I must say that right now, I see no reason to immediately remove Matthew. However, I am obligated to file a report that will be reviewed by my superiors. I would like to have all of you present sign this paper, where I have noted what has transpired here today. Child Services will be in contact with you in the coming weeks for a final decision." Papers shuffling.

The room is filled with noise. Father Everett is trying to congratulate Dad, and Officer O'Malley is conferring with Ms. Williams about the police report he'll be obliged to file since he was called in on this deal. Dave is arguing with Mrs. Foster and I think he will raise Cain with the people at the Lighthouse. Aunt Grace comes over and gives me a hug, which I return halfheartedly. She kisses the top of my head and slips out the door, telling me that everything will be okay. I seriously doubt it.

* * *

Everyone leaves, and Dad and I collapse on the couch. Dave consoled us before he left, saying he'd do his best to get me reassigned to a different instructor, and he'll see me tomorrow for a trip to the Lighthouse. I hope he'll be successful. Anybody would have to be better than that old battleax.

"Well, Matty, that was somethin' I don't ever want to repeat, ya know?" He leans back heavily and sighs deeply.

I lean back, too, and clasp my hands behind my head. "No foolin', Dad. I thought I was gonna crap when you opened the door and all those people were here already. Dave and I probably hadn't been gone much more than an hour. Did they call first, or just show up on the doorstep?"

"They just showed up. Officer O'Malley came up here with Mrs. Foster and that Ms. Williams. They started questioning me, and O'Malley went over to Grace's and called Father Everett from her place. Good thing he was available. We needed all the witnesses we could get."

"It's my fault, Dad. If I'd have kept my mouth shut this morning, none of this would have happened." I feel like total shit. Dad doesn't deserve this sort of crap.

"Nah, I pissed off that old bat when I lost my temper. All you did was say what was true. Nothin' wrong with that. She just took it the wrong way, and flew off the handle." He gets up from the couch. "I need a beer."

I just hope he stops with one or two.


End file.
